


Through The Window, On The Fire Escape

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pre-ASiP fic, and how John and Sherlock's relationship started forging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Another morning in 221B Baker Street, as any other, meant waking to my new flatmate playing mindlessly on the violin, with no concern for my sleep deprivation. The music, although soothing at times, might as well present itself between 3 AM and make no difference, for he had no particular or established hour for it. It obeyed only to his swinging moods. Today, at 5:35 in the morning, with pensive undertones, it could only mean Sherlock Holmes was unravelling what others would consider an impossible case. It meant the music was helping him think out possibilities and each note was a developing scenario in his mind.

Groggily, I dragged my legs out of bed, and under automation carried the weight of my body for the energizing brew he liked to call coffee, but I baptized as sugared poison. Why on earth did he pre-sugar it?

“Oh, I see you’re finally up,” he sighed, pulling away from the notation stand, tensed arrows in his eyes. “John, something’s bothering you, and you’ve been keeping it inside for quite some time.”

Quietly pouring myself a cup, I barely noticed when he had decided to step beside me, mere millimetres marking the distance. He sighed, heavily this occasion, clasped the hand that was in possession of the brewer. Surely he couldn’t feel the redness rising through my face, yet the strength of his fingers surprised me while he listlessly made himself a cup, as if I wasn’t really there at all, didn’t exist.

Nobody was there for him in reality, constantly drawing preference for his inner wanderings over others’ company. Something was different now from the first time we met. His cat-like eyes had stopped observing me with scientific interest, making silence more pinching when he pressed closely.

“Come on John! Something’s inside that curious head of yours, out with it…” insistence was in the rolling thunder of his voice, and a smile crossing his entire face. You could tell he was not much of a smiler, extending the courtesy rarely and most privately. Not wanting to sound impolite, and much less repeat myself about my reason for calmness I yielded with an excuse: “Listen, could you just moderate yourself with the violin? I have late shifts this month.” Not entirely true. The nightmares from Afghanistan were back and sleep, as little as I could have it was an earned luxury. His pursed lips signalled a childish discomfort “Well, I’m sorry,” he said “but I did warn you beforehand when Stamford brought us together.” There was a sourness at the way he closed his eyes at _together_ , studiously re-immersing his brow in the tight knot that characterizes worriers and thinkers alike. Or what I misguidedly took for thinking then. Truth was he felt upset at our flatmate dynamic, it was a bit tense; you know… the initial roughness and clashing of habits. Sulking after having a word was his specialty, I quickly learned. Sherlock wasn’t much for emotions either, as I was told in passing conversations. Lestrade, Anderson, darling Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft agreed on it: Sherlock could be as cold as a Siberian winter, but he was also prone to rash and mindless choices to avoid boredom, rushing into newness.

“Mental note then: no speaking about the violin,” I tried to comfort. Giving up was not part of my Army training, but I was also taught to uphold peace, as a basic rule. “No, no. It’s alright. I understand perfectly,” he said and slid downstairs to his room. He’d come back within the half hour, when I’d go to run errands, but this time I was staying inside and away from the predicted rainfall.

Settling on the couch with a decent book, the minutes passed by relatively quiet, once every few the clinking of water against the windows growing stronger. I’d spent easily two hours reading in comfort, when my tired eyes, rubbed fiercely to gain focus on my surroundings, glanced at the nearest clock (on my wrist) to find out it was a bit before 11 o’clock. What in seven hells was my flatmate doing? He’d be buzzing about with some experiment by now, probably and most definitely, involving the bodily fluids of a deceased idiot. But he wasn’t. Strange and pleasing for my need of silence, unpleasant for my routine.

Unusual to my own business, I found myself taking the way down the stairs and opening a door to a room that until now was foreign to me. The richness of the smells inhabiting it drained my consciousness for tight seconds: incense of patchouli, the greasy leftovers of ordered food from last night, an assortment of teacups (each one with a voice of its own), and the petrichor sliding through an open window freshening the air. Briefly, I was interrupted by the shifting of a body in bed, the ripples across the sheets encompassing the frame of a man much taller than me, but with darker hair and even darker, quieter thoughts.

“Sherlock?” I barely tried saying, finding out he was absolutely under the spell of a tantrum-induced sleep. Taking in the falling and rising of his breathing, I turned back and just as I about closed the door I heard a soft “John”.

“John,” he repeated “have a seat,” doubting, and he guessing my doubt as I approached a velvet-cushioned armchair by his bed “Take your time”. I’d seen his flashes of anger before, clenching teeth and narrowing of eyes. I could almost expect it as a continuation of his pouts from the morning, though his words surprised me: “Tell me all about your war,” a child begging for a bedtime story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock insists to John on telling him about the war. Sherlock's POV chapter.

Mostly I’d been hearing John whimper at nights, and in an effort to seem empathic I asked him about his personal story, still unsure he’d speak to me. People don’t tend to like me, or talk about life in general, if they know I can already pry open their basic selves with a few glances. It was a science I had crafted from childhood, as much as I’d had to build a protection from those not wanting of the secret truths they ignored in their person.

John Watson seemed another case, and an exciting thrill that I was accepted ran electrically with satisfaction in a smile and a quick deduction since we first met. Stamford was no simple fool. He knew exactly the sort of flatmate I was bound for, and the kind I would be able to tolerate had to be if not smart, easily disposable by sheer use of spiteful words with the right sting.

Here he was, sitting in front of me with sad eyes, finding myself watching through the window the long slender lines drawn by raindrops. There was comfort in the silence I had to share with him, despite the symphony of the outer world. He wasn’t angry, nor was he about to hate me, his breathing just quite slow that I could discern his worries, but I’d rather John tell them in his own words, much simpler and soothing than the technical terms I was used to being drilled with by my head on a constant basis. He managed to drown out the noise.

“Tell me all about your war, please” I repeated. I knew he wasn’t excited to relive those memories, but it always helped to talk, drawing out the poison little by little. “Well,” he said in the slowest whisper, and he stood still there, gone a thousand miles away, and sucked right back to London on a rainy Saturday “it’s not that easy to begin with, but you already know the basics.” Army doctor trained at Saint Bartholomew’s, unable to live solely on the pension granted by the government. Yes, yes, all the dull details.

“I still want to know _your_ story, John”. This was a man not used to cracking, the elite force he was part of, allowed survival through the temporary death of emotion, and only now where the feelings rekindling in his heart. “It’s not easy Sherlock,” his voice lingering through the space between us. I could see his eyes glaze with tears, but chose to ignore them by closing mine. That would comfort John enough, and concede a level of privacy to his words.

“Mind you, I don’t talk the way you do, so I’m probably going to bore you,” he reminded me. He told me of a sandstorm the Arabs commonly called _simoom_ , and how it had killed one of their mates, whose mask air filter wasn’t sealed properly so the dry air mixed with the sand drained the life out of his lungs. “It was a terrible death, and I realized this was only the beginning of a nightmare I wanted to end quickly,” he continued “Keep calm and carry on, like the old war advertisements said, that’s all we could really do”.

The distinct easiness that drifted in John’s vowels made his voice an amusing, calming one to listen to, even when he was telling the horrors of war. I couldn’t help imagining myself beside him, a mere observer of casualties, wounds festering and the possibilities of experimentation flourishing through my brain cells “One time I was out of disinfectant and sterilizing equipment necessary to pull out a bullet without risk of future gangrene,” he pondered and I snapped inside my head to the immediate answer he gave “Vinegar. Vinegar solution with water was a trick my grandmother taught me one time I cut myself with a broken glass. And stopping the excessive bleeding with coffee”. Smart man, resourceful. This is why I like John Watson so much, I thought with an unintentional smile.

On the frontlines, he mused, things where much different than what the newspapers reported. Harry mailed him daily, even though he only had a chance every week or so to catch up on news from home, how his little sister had found another love of her life, so on and so forth. Boring, yes, but a cheery attitude that brightened him in the worst of days, “Harry was important to me, no matter the disasters she kept making infuriating me and making me smile at the same time”. John kept narrating the harshest facts, trying to remove himself from the past as if he was looking at a photograph.

I still had my eyes closed when I heard a choked whimper, just as he mentioned one of his battle partners. Sebastian Moran he was called, finest sniper in the Regiment and a damned good friend. I dared not ask for my better part, but the words escaped through my teeth and floated out my lips “By what manner did you lose him?” I could feel his eyes on me, burning with lost security. Parting my eyes to a minimum I moved a hand to his knee, and tip-tip two teardrops fell on it. Talking became unnecessary now, and the few comforts I could offer were never through words. Too blunt, too indiscrete. I’m still a machine, I thought.

The whiff of petrichor that the wind brought inside reminded me of its calming properties. Draping the bed sheets around my body, I lifted myself and picked John up from his position “Come now, you could use some fresh air”. I closed the open panel in my room and brought him upstairs where the windows were bigger and the coffee was warmer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this fic wasn't continued and that it won't be either. I sort of drifted off the Sherlock fandom in general, specially after all the Elementary vs. Sherlock drama. Maybe it deserves a shot, but not in the near future.


End file.
